i have been in a big writing block. the last few weeks, it has felt like every single time i would try to draft something- absolutely nothing would come to the page. but right now, there is a lot of chaos happening in my brain. it’s weird. things feel a little bigger and some days, i have trouble keeping up. and one of my greatest fears is that i think that maybe i am too much. i think about it nonstop. that the narrative that’s existed my whole life has led me to believe that i am too much; which ironically, must also mean that i am not enough. weird. it’s this concept that floats in the landscape of my brain way more than it should. just another layer of imposter syndrome. that who i am is the reason people leave. that who i am and what has shaped me is too much for other people to help carry sometimes. lately, my brain has been creating this false sense of feeling like a burden. it feels like everything that i have been through has been so heavy that it’s left cracks in the surface of every relationship in my life. including the one with myself. and before people start to unpack this and think it’s about them; it’s not. it’s about me. and how the events of my life over the last two years have created this twisted notion that i am too much for some and not enough for others. and i think it comes from existing in a place in which if for even a split second i feel unlovable- i will begin to spiral. it’s this collapsing spiral that shifts my brain into this place of feeling like i take up way too much space. that i need to be smaller. more insignificant. less attention on me. because the things that have been happening to me are massive. life changing. altering absolutely every avenue of my life.
and sometimes, in the after cancer days, i still feel like there isn’t enough keeping me tethered to the earth. that it could all come crashing down and take everything away from me again. and will it be too much for people the next time? and i know, i know. you’re all probably screaming at me to stop thinking about it happening again. and to live with the idea that it won’t come back. but i also have a horrible track record. and right now, my healing even feels like too much for me sometimes. that this tattered and scarred body is never going to feel like home. no matter what i do. and that i will continue to figure out ways to hide it or deal with it or cope with it or just exist in it. and that every part of me that i discovered and figured out before the world crashed onto my shoulders; will never actually be attainable again. and that right there- that feels like too much to say out loud to anyone. to anyone who asks me what’s on my mind or why i spent two hours crying myself to sleep or why i am quiet. sometimes this artificial face that i put on is because everything behind it, feels like it’s too much. and the only thing i promised myself was that i would never squash myself down to make other people feel comfortable. even though there is so much that i feel like i can’t say; sometimes i just feel like it’s me. that i am too much. that my story and my healing and my trauma and my goals and my successes and my failures are all just too much. too much for people. too much to say out loud.
and in saying all of that- i can also say that i sometimes feel like i am not enough. too much and not enough. wild. what’s happening in my brain is pure chaos. because i have reached yet another point in this hellacious journey of healing. and maybe it’s not one that anyone else has experienced or maybe it is. or maybe it’s just wildly different. or whatever. but it’s this crossroad. this massive intersection where what i wanted out of life before i faced death and what i want after it all. they’ve come to this meeting place. and they aren’t the same anymore. and it feels like this change in the tides. this shift that changes everything. i want to say no to some of the shit i signed myself up for before my whole life fell into a million pieces. i want certain people by my side. i want more sleep. i want to find a peaceful place for my brain and body to exist at the same time. i want more time on this earth. and i want it to be well spent. i am not an ounce of the person i was before i knocked on death’s door in twenty twenty. i am not an ounce of the person i was before my hair fell out and my breasts were amputated. i am not an ounce of the person i was before i heard the words remission and survival. i am every ounce of what has happened to me. i am every ounce of pain, trauma, strength, fight, failure, fear, survival that has been in me. and it’s created this person who no longer desires to be linked to the person i had to lose in all of this. it’s too painful to be connected to something that is no longer mine. to be connected to something that cannot exist ever again. the version i created and built over thirty years is gone. and the loss of that is immense. some days, it’s consuming. and other days, it fills me with relief. to be able to start again. to choose. to define what comes next. to shed the heavy stigmas and pressures. to be authentic. to be myself. to be someone who was broken and shattered and found a way to slowly glue it all back together.
here’s the thing- i don’t know what is next. but i don’t think i wanna spend whatever time i have with this version of myself- writing a dissertation or missing my moments writing hours of annotations. i don’t know who i wanna be. or where i wanna be for all of this. what i do know is that i worked so freaking hard to exist; to live. harder than you’ll ever be able to understand. and it cost me my whole being. my mind, my body, my brain. and over the last eighteen months in remission, i have spent every waking moment- learning to be this new version. and it has been hard and sad and rewarding and chaotic.
it’s the changing of the tides, babe. the moment when the shore gets a moment of peace. the moment where the ocean gets to breathe. before the waves begin.